Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn
by schnook
Summary: One week. One Hotel. One chance by a series of post-it notes, dog-eared pages, sarcastic remarks and wilting hopes. They're just two more people in the world searching for something beyond the sex and glamour of their youth. Usui/Misaki. Now drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn**

**Show: Maid Sama!**

**Pairing: Usui/Misaki**

**Summary: One week. One Hotel. One chance by a series of post-it notes, dog-eared pages, sarcastic remarks and wilting hopes. They're just two more people in the world searching for something beyond the sex and glamour of their youth. Usui/Misaki. Slightly AU.**

**-x-x-x-**

**Part I**

**-x-x-x-**

He obtained the book from his brother, who had given it to him for his nineteenth birthday as a sort of humourless joke. The party was in full swing, and his apartment smelt of smoke and candle wax as the guests hummed in vibration with the throbbing music. His brother had made the journey by aeroplane to the event, and waltzed toward him with a satirical smirk, a bottle of wine in one hand, a shabbily wrapped package in the other.

"Here," he had smirked, thrusting the package into unwilling hands. The thin wrapping crinkled in protest. An overly zealous dancer fell against his back. Lights flickered. "Happy birthday, loser." Brother then strode eagerly away, disappearing into the teenage crowd.

Usui would have preferred the wine.

Later, when the crowds had vanished into the night, Gerard had taken his flight back to England, and the ghost of the throbbing music was still faintly beating against the inside of his skull like a bad joke, Usui tore open the gift and found the book inside, with a hastily scrawled message penned inside the back cover.

_Usui,_

_There are two types of Mr. Darcys. There's the fictional kind, and there's your kind. Fictional ones get the girl; guys like you scare them away and wallow in your own crappy existence afterward._

_Happy Birthday!_

_G. Walker_

A personally written message was more than he had expected from him. On that account, he was pleasantly off-kilter. The words were ignored. Nineteen years hadn't taught him much, but they had taught him enough. Love was seasonal, at best. At times, it was probably nothing more than mislaid hopes.

He had stopped hoping years ago.

He hid the book under his bed. He had no intention of reading it, let alone looking at its proud cover. The message had already been made clear; its purpose had been served.

Idly, he wondered if Gerard and Faye were happy.

Idly, he wondered if that happiness should have been his.

**-x-x-x-**

**Part II**

**-x-x-x-**

Four years had given him the opportunity to read it eight times thus far. That's twice a year. Once every six months. A little under two pages a day.

He hated the cover. Supposedly it represented the heroine, a sixteenth century portrait of a young, plump woman with smooth pale skin and vivid dark eyes. She wore pearls. Her hair was evenly crimped. The suggestion of plump, ready breasts was depicted under her fine attire, sensually bold under her satin and silk. She looked upon him scornfully, yet was neither a lover nor an enemy. The femme fatale. He hated it. Oh, how he hated it.

The outline of the pages had weakened under severe use. He read vivaciously, made annotations along the side margins, underlined in thin, blue pen quotes he admired, quotes he hated, quotes he found amoral, quotes he recalled from some distant, far-off place – perhaps a melting memory. He employed the same thin white ribbon as a bookmark as the first time he read it. To dog-ear a page was blasphemy. He kept the pages straight, crisp, as if he could fool himself into believing he had never lay eyes on the words before in his life when he sought to start the story again.

He had torn out the philosopher-masters graduate-scholar-godly mind's introduction. Words, words. Once, in his naivety, he had attempted to read it. The introduction made his mind fog up and his teeth twinge. Jane Austen this, Jane Austen that. The social implications at the time, the great achievement this was for women. Did the author mention he was a graduate of Yale? Why yes, yes, as a matter of fact he is. Majoring in just about anything you could think of…He tore it out. Words, words, words. He tore it out. Words. He wanted to feel, and all they could do was feed him words.

At twenty-three, he was living limbo. He stood in the entrance of the Grand Hotel at five o'clock in the morning, suitcases at his feet, polished marble floors beneath his toes like a promising reverie. He wore his white Armani suit. He felt like a pillar in it. The woman with thin-framed glasses and red curly hair guided him to his room on the top floor, clipboard hanging ominously from her left hand. She swung her hips at him in her black, well-cut business suit. He frowned. She simpered.

"Usui Takumi. Floor thirty-six. Room twelve." She opened the door for him and lingered by the frame, unabashedly hopeful. She flicked a red curl from her eyes.

"That's all, thank you."

There was a pregnant pause that smelt distinctly of bitterness. She left resignedly.

For one week he would call this room home. He wondered if he should even bother unpacking.

With some trepidation – for a reason he couldn't quite identify – he took out his four-year-old, English copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and set it back to page one. With his white ribbon bookmark at the ready, he began to read again.

And so it began again.

**-x-x-x-**

**Part III**

**-x-x-x-**

Truthfully, he made his swimming look effortless. Arms that cut through the cool, blue glass with speed and grace. He swam low and deep, listening to the sounds above him deepen and drown in the blissful oblivion of the thick, intoxicating deep. Here, the lanes were not restrictions, but guidance to his way. Energy was exerted. Blood reached his head and enveloped his mind. He hauled himself away from the water and chlorine and managed to walk to his towel without the slightest misstep.

In the change rooms, however, he clasped his sides painfully as he panted into his knees.

Morning routine. As would always be.

**-x-x-x-**

He swam every morning from seven till eight. Which proved useful, as Usui discovered, since it was during that hour that the maid would let herself in every morning for the hotels usual clean up. The morning of his arrival at the Grand Hotel, Usui returned from his swim with a damp towel draped around his neck.

His room was much the same as he had left it, only his bed was touched up in areas he had scruffed up and a vacuum had most obliviously been liberally applied. His suitcases were as he left them that morning, unpacked and solemn, lying dejectedly by the bed. The single item he had unpacked rested just as it did on the bedside table.

The day passed just as any other.

Morning arrived. The sun broke out giddily, escaping through the curtains and making its way to the corners of the room, tangling itself in hidden cobwebs. The time read 5:53am. Usui sat upright, reached for his book, and began to read.

But something was amiss.

A few pages before where his bookmark was jammed, the top right-hand corner of the page was lightly dog-eared. A thin, straight bend folded over the number 06 with conspicuous certainty.

He never dog-eared his pages.

Trying in vain to erase the mark, Usui ultimately gave up and resumed his own reading, eyes following the letters but not quite comprehending. He found the word 'assurance.'

And so it began.

**-x-x-x-**

He had his suspicions.

Returning from his swim that very same morning, he immediately closed himself in his room and headed for the book. The carpet felt, again, freshly vacuumed, and the bed was correctly made.

And now, a fold over page 16. Page 16 dog-eared.

Usui frowned lightly and skimmed the page. Two years before, after a somewhat bitter recollection of his mother's departure had plagued him, he had made a small annotation beside a certain passage on page 16.

…_though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention…_

And there, in his own blue-inked, prejudicial yet elegant scrawl:

_What's the rush?_

But on closer inspection, there, underneath his own satirical ramblings, a finer annotation in grey lead that had never been there before:

_Not everyone has the luxury of time. _

It was then he knew for sure.

His maid was reading his book.

And apparently, she had a few opinions of her own.

_Wonderful_, Usui grimaced.

**-x-x-x-**

Wondering at a certain annotation, Usui sat at the desk of his hotel room and stared at the book that was lying in front of him.

His blue handwriting was always recognisable.

_This is what women want. Tall, dark, handsome with no social skills. Add a splash of bitterness, lust, arrogance and pride and you've created the perfect man. What would have been the result if Darcy had behaved differently on their first meeting? Isn't the fact that he's an enigma the only thing retaining her interest?_

Beneath, her own light, straight-forward lettering.

_You're missing the point. It's the men. Look at Mr Hurst. Bingley, even. He only visits Mr. Bennet for the first time in hopes he might get a chance to check out the daughters. God only knows he was probably imagining the female Bennet household as his own personal brothel. You're judging women for being attracted to the superficial, but look at your heroes. Look at your men. Dirty, filthy good-for-nothing morons who think with their pants and lure with their wallets._

Over the next page, she had underlined one word in the text.

_petticoat_

Beside it, she wrote gain. He could almost imagine her smirk leaking onto the page.

_See? One thing on their minds._

He sat contemplating this. Contemplating her. He knew an Aunt who was a man-hater. He pictured a short, middle-aged woman with grey streaks hanging over her ears, chewing the inside of her cheeks as she went about her duties, pitter-pattering around his room until she spied the book , writing cheeky notes beneath his, reprimanding his short-sightedness with her own prejudiced opinions. It amused him as it repulsed him.

Any woman over thirty-five mentioning the word 'brothel' was a turn-off.

For another twenty minutes he sat, wondering how to respond to this blatant – indirect, but nonetheless blatant – insult.

Eventually he smirked and uncapped his blue pen.

**-x-x-x-**

_You know, if you keep up that hatred of men, they'll start acting hostile toward you too._

**-x-x-x-**

The fourth day came with her reply.

_I'll take my chances._

**-x-x-x-**

The fifth day came. Usui looked back at the material they had covered, astounded that there was barely any room left in the margins at all. Blue and grey clouded the emptiness.

They had fought – over everything and anything. He could no longer see her as some withered old woman. There was too much fire in her retorts, too much passion on the subject of young love for it not to be close to her own heart or situation. He knew her handwriting, and it felt like knowing her body. He knew the curves and the dips and the marks and the pauses. He imagined the tenor of her voice as she wrote with more force, more anger, the grey lead becoming darker, embossing the backside of each page.

It wasn't till now he could understand how intimate an experience fighting was. And she loved to fight. Nothing she wrote wasn't formed from dynamite and gunpowder.

He was embarrassed as he was beguiled. Embarrassed should he be charmed by a prejudicial old bat, beguiled by the phantom-like existence she claimed in his life.

On the sixth day, one day before his departure, he didn't go swimming.

He waited for seven o'clock to come. He waited in bed. When seven-thirty came, he waited in a secluded corner by his desk, drawing the curtains in the hope he might observe unnoticed.

And then, with a proficient sweep of the door knob and pushing of the door, she was there.

And he understood how Captain Cook must have felt standing before the thundering, blood-red rock masses of South Australia for the first time, towering over life itself like the archaic gods of old.

And he understood how Mozart must have felt while composing his twelfth symphony in the dead of the night, hearing the sounds of the dead intertwine with his own haunting melody as his fingers moved as if possessed.

And he understood how Monet must have felt while standing before his completed _Waterlilies_, the canvas circling around his person, larger than the room itself, more intensely, more devastatingly beautiful than mother nature herself.

And he understood how he must have felt, watching her walk into his own private sanctum with her maid costume, neatly ironed and crisp, one slither of light hitting her full in the face in one gold ray of liquid light.

She headed for his book, back to him, blissfully unaware of her future and fate. Reading easily, she didn't bother to sit. Three pages, and she was done. A small scribble later, a straightening of his bed sheets, and she was gone. Gone, and oblivious to her future and her fate.

He unsteadily made his way to the book, finding his was to the page she finished on with cold fingers.

_I see you there._

He couldn't help the smirk that came over him. It was born with the only intent of springing to his face.

_Pervert_.

**-x-x-x-**

**Part IV**

**-x-x-x-**

Misaki Ayuzawa had worked as a maid since she was sixteen years old. A dignified position? Perhaps not to her idea of the definition, no. But needed? Absolutely. The lower end of a commoner's living barely left room for the luxury of choice when it came to employment.

She had never intended the notes to go this far. They were an outlet – just one way to release some pent up aggression and dissatisfaction. Satisfaction gained through fighting with yet another man. Yet when she first saw the owner of the romantic classic, she almost killed herself laughing.

Tall, handsome – perhaps not dark, per se – but arrogant and indifferent, for certain. It could be read as soon as you saw him. The way he stood. The way he spoke. Right down to the way he blinked – heavy, disbelieving and apathetic in one slight eyelid movement. And here he was - her master; rich, handsome, and currently brooding over the source of women's happiness and girlish fantasies for the past one hundred and fifty years.

She remembered, without some embarrassment, her witty – and perhaps even flirtatious – response to one of his notes shortly after she found out his true identity.

_I'll take my chances._

_Stupid Misaki_, she had berated herself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

So, he was handsome. Big deal. In the end, weren't they all just a bunch of perverted aliens?

Yet there was still that one line she had written. Goodness only knows she had never tried to flirt in her life, not even in high school with the ready eagerness of Hinata at her disposal. She was too strict, too down-the-line, too demon-president-from-hell-like. And now here she was, having attempted her first act of flirting with a man who didn't even know who she was. And by god, it had been unconsciously done.

_Stupid Misaki. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She had seen him the day before just leaving his room, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, an apathetic heaviness to his eyes. Eager to avoid any embarrassment that usually occurred when a patron met with their maid, she waited in the wings of the corridors till he was safely in the elevator.

And he was beautiful.

Not that it mattered.

And so she saw him. She saw him in the lobby. She saw him returning from his swim. She saw him talking softly to that darn stray cat no one could manage to chase from the hotel premises. She saw him. She wished she could stop seeing him.

Her uniform always felt too tight, too revealing when he was near. She tugged at the hem of her skirt every morning before she entered his room, glad to the high heavens he wouldn't be there.

Until one day, that sixth day, he was.

And to have him there, have him watching her calves from the shadows, have him watch her fingers touch his book made her feel a calm she hadn't felt in years.

It was in bravery, she decided, not flirtatiousness, that she wrote what she did that day.

No more avoiding. No more tugging at her dress self-consciously. No more prying her eyes away.

_I see you there_.

She saw him there.

The seventh day came, that last day came, and she found herself skipping ahead till she eventually flipped to the back cover where a sloppily written note was written. She didn't recognise the handwriting. She didn't recognise the vile, jealous bitterness of it.

_Usui,_

_There are two types of Mr. Darcys. There's the fictional kind, and there's your kind. Fictional ones get the girl; guys like you scare them away and wallow in your own crappy existence afterward._

_Happy Birthday!_

_G. Walker_

And she wrote her last note beneath.

**-x-x-x-**

_You don't scare me._

**-x-x-x-**

Later that day, a black limousine pulled up and a blonde head disappeared into it, luggage by his side. He looked odd stepping into it, as if he were a cat returning home to a fish bowl. The wind blew.

Later that day, Misaki tiredly made her way to her locker. She looked odd returning to it, as if she were a girl working in a maid café, secretly despising the men she served. The wind blew.

She wasn't overly surprised to find it there, standing upright ceremoniously in her locker. She always knew a flirt when she saw one. Briefly wondering how on earth he managed to get it in there, she pulled it out unsteadily.

Attached to the cover was a post-it-note, written in his elegant hand.

_Dinner. 8:30pm. Refusing is strictly prohibited. _

_Usui Takumi._

_(p.s. Were they drawers?)_

**-x-x-x-**

**End.**

**-x-x-x-**

**A/N: I wasn't sure about writing Usui's character pre-Misaki era. I haven't read the manga, only wiki'd his background, so I assume he probably wasn't the life of the party. I kind of missed his usual light-hearted perverseness. Sigh. **

**lol, bee-tee-dubs, did anyone else ADORE how Usui walks like some mega gangsta with attitude in the first episode at the beach, when all the random girls are trying to get some of that gorgeous blonde head of his? His hips are a shakin' and he's all hippy with it. The highlight, for sure. :P**

**Adieu.**

**x Schnook.**


	2. Chapter 2

**YAYZIES!**

**So, thanks to the HUGE support toward the first chapter, I've finally made a move. **

**This is going from a one-shot into a collection of…drabbles, you could say. Well, drabbles with a bit more something to them. They won't be connected, but if they are, I'll let you know.**

**So, onto this one!**

**Show: Maid Sama!**

**Pairing: Usui/Misaki/Cat?**

**Summary: They're a tapestry. Interwoven and bright, there's too much to them to be kept to a 25x65 dimension. They bleed out. They seep. They live. (Set about a year after the end of the anime, er, and…I got nothing)**

**-x-x-x-**

All things considering, he should have seen this coming.

The small, fleeting glances she had been giving him through the day. The smell of her, attacking him at all angles. The slight 'O' her lips made when she addressed him. He had wanted to take her fingers and study each of them because they, they had been twirling anxiously. Or idly. He wasn't really sure. He wanted to hold them, squeeze them, kiss them. But she wouldn't look him in the eye. The teachers had been droning on and on and _on_.

Now here she was, changed out of her school uniform, changed out of her work uniform, and changed out of those suspicious glances she had been firing at him. She leant against the doorframe, looking as if she were steeling herself for battle.

Which, you know, she probably was.

"Er," she commented lightly, refusing to budge from the safety of the hall. She had a small bag slung around her shoulders. One fist was half-raised, either halfway through a knock, or halfway through aiming a punch. He tried not to duck instinctively.

"Uh," he responded in kind, and briefly marvelled at the conversation that had just passed. One small part of his mind was searching for similar non-abrasive half-sounds, just in case. He tried hunching his shoulders together, all together leaving as much space for her as possible, trying to appear less like the carnivorous animal she seemed bracing herself for. He stepped away from the door. Personal space, apparently, was all the rage.

"Did you want to, uh," he gestured behind him, hand flying somewhat in the direction of the tall windows to the left. _Jump_, his minded finished for him gleefully. He repressed a pace-palm.

Frowning, Misaki brushed passed him and into the threshold, hoping to god she didn't just _scuttle_.

"Yes," she affirmed, though she was already in. She appeared to be giving her best impression of an awkward bystander, hovering by the couch, refusing to sit on it, looking just about as happy as his grandmother's ashes.

That is, if his grandmother _was_ ashes.

Dear god, was his grandmother even _dead_ yet?

He shook his head mildly, as if clearing it, hoping his hair would sway attractively (or seductively, or even both would be quite agreeable. He could tolerate her lunging herself at him and, you know, _ravishing_ him) while he performed the art. He glanced up, but Misaki seemed to be having a one-player competition with herself to see how long she could avoid looking at him.

She was staring blankly at his cat.

Said cat stared back.

Before any further developments to the relationship could be made, either initiated by Misaki or, heaven forbid, his own damn _cat_, he cleared his throat rather self-indulgently. Then again, because it seemed to indicate what he was about to say would be either grand, witty, suggestive, extremely profound, or, if his usual habits were any indication, all four at once.

Her head snapped up, and he winced for her neck, because he highly doubted her neck could audibly wince for itself.

"As overjoyed as my cat is for this visit," he began rather grandly, hands gesturing outward for show, "I doubt he'll keep you entertained for very long."

He smiled at his own wit. Misaki frowned.

"Unlike myself," he tacked on for good measure, wondering if he could find a way to remove his shirt and make it look completely and utterly justified. Idly, he wondered if he still had that list he had composed during a particularly tedious science class if a situation like this were to occur. Most of the point were invalid unless his shirt was off. How the hell else could she ravish him if the fancy so took her? He was accommodating. In his own way.

"It's Washing Day today," he began casually, a bright little flash bulb hovering above his head – the kind that usually incited half-baked, nonsensical ideas that ended in identity theft. In reality, there was no such thing as Washing Day. He lived in a _penthouse_ for Pete's sake. But Misaki cut off his brilliant, although slightly eccentric solution firmly.

"Will you cut it out?" she snapped, finally falling onto the couch with a depressive_ thump_ as the cat leisurely meandered somewhere behind the curtains. Probably to eavesdrop.

He had a good feeling jealousy made him slightly delusional. _Slightly_.

Would he sit next to her? A year ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Hell, he wouldn't have hesitated telling her to throw herself at him and _ravish_ him. _She_ had even taken off his shirt on her own accord back then. But now. But now.

Somewhere in the tapestry, a thread was pulled tight.

She was seventeen. He was eighteen. They faced each other with a wariness only age could incite. She was seventeen. He was eighteen. Before, it had been frightening. They held hands like all the other high-schoolers, they kissed. But it had grown into something else – something more? Neither had a clue. All that was clear now was that the fear had changed. Evolved.

She was terrified he'd end up laughing about it in the future at some smoky pub, a pretty red-head wrapped around his torso like a musk, and he would be looking into her face and finding that something he had once found in that girl he once went to school with; Misaki Ayuzawa. And it would have been so much easier if he had forgotten her name.

He was terrified she'd finally realise she was too good for him. She'd finish high school at the top, finally beating him. She'd storm away to university, creating the havoc and order and admiration that seemed to always follow her. She'd soar. She'd bloom. She'd see. And she'd finally realise the blonde boy who couldn't keep his hands off her if he tried was nothing more than one piece of something much, much bigger. And he'll be left behind – for his own good.

But there was something in this fear.

Every move was finally _significant_. He wondered if that was what they had missed one year ago. Significance. He wanted to be able to kiss her fingers and feel like he was signing a contract with each fingernail. There was the future in the way she looked at him. There was truth in the way he kissed her.

He sat.

The cushion shifted under him, accompanying the weight. She was frowning. Again.

"You came here," he reminded her lightly, tossing his glasses onto the coffee table, trying to appear spontaneous. Though, in front of her, there was little point. She drew it all in like water, without even blinking. "So have what you came here for, and I won't hold you for anything else."

Misaki shrugged, and it took him a second to realise this was her answer.

"Ah," he told her.

"Eh," she sighed.

They were getting better at this.

**-x-x-x-**

**Yeah, so, hm.**

**So we've got a slightly depressed Usui from the last one-shot, a witty, border-line immature one here, so I swear I'll get around to perverted. One day. Hm.**

**(Review.)**

**Did you just think I told you to review? You're hallucinating.**

**(Review.)**

**Again? Not me.**

**(Review.)**

**Must be your inner desires.**

**(Review.)**

**It's bad to suppress your inner desires, so you better do whatever it's telling you to.**

**I'll stop the review prostitution now. Sorry.**

**x Schnook**


	3. Chapter 3

**So…..the Dinner Date. Created by popular demand. Rejoice, and by merry!**

**Well, I should just warn you to consider this an AU to the AU of the hotel-book-stalking one-shot. It's just that the mood in this one is decidedly lighter, with a lot more humour. So no doom and gloom. Sorry, I know how everyone **_**loves **_**doom and gloom.**

**Sigh.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**Warning: Far too much John Cusack bashing. You'll see what I mean.**

**-x-x-x-**

At the tender age of eight years old, Misaki Ayuzawa had learnt two vital, international, indisputable truths that would enable her with a bright step into her awaiting future; the first – grovelling will get you _everywhere_.

The second – _all_ men are babies.

While she had learned the first observing the antics of her once-was-there-but-is-now-nowhere-to-be-seen-the-good-for-nothing-bastard father (or so she thus christened him now in her mind, which, you may agree, would be nothing short of sardonic if the very same thought was running through her earlier eight-year-old mind. Which hadn't – yet) appealing to her mother – proof of the fact it had been only his perpetual pleading that had induced her mother to put up with the scoundrel for so long, and in effect, was the only thing keeping him there for so long.

With grovelling, anything was excused. Hell, she could have gone on a _puppy_ vendetta and live through the consequences with the help of a little carpet-to-knee time.

The second truth (which renders it by no means lesser to the first) was conceived after a particularly intense viewing of _Anastasia_, and although Dimitri was _mighty fine_ (well, as _mighty fine_ as a man can be to an eight-year-old girl with a developing hate-all-things-x-chromosome complex), all _mighty finess _was lost when six years later, thanks to a faulty _Google_ search and one too many suggestive pop-up ads, she discovered the voice of the charming 2-D Russian belonged to none other than John Cusack.

_John Bloody Cusack_.

Ugh.

So the fascination ended there. Despite this traumatic turn of events, however, she a) not only survived, but b) had already gleamed the most important message those overly happy buggers stowed away laughing maniacally away in Pixar had implanted in the animation on the first viewing: _All_ Men are Babies.

She swore by it.

Big, fat, _cry-baby_ babies.

(Babies as in the under one-year-old kind of babes, not the kind you find without their shirts on in Italy strolling down the cobble-stone streets with hands that were born to cook Mamma's authentic lasagne.)

(Although, it would be nice if all men were that kind, though. Just saying.)

So, it was this second truth-to-end-all-truths that Misaki chanted inside her head as she stumbled out of the taxi (gracefully) and surveyed the (slightly shabby) restaurant before her.

"Out gonna go have yourselves a good time tonigh,' eh?" the bearded, slightly chubby taxi driver commented appreciatively, gazing up at the store front of her intended destination with an alarming mix of awe and nostalgia. The tattoo on his right arm cheerfully informed her that, indeed, _All Love to Mum_.

Before she could even inform him that his question defied all principles of grammer, let alone common courtesy, he barked out the fare. In _currency._ (She was hoping by some small miracle she could pay him in left-overs. Or violence.)

To which stated price she naturally haggled.

And when feminine charms didn't cut it, or rather, he seemed too distracted by her chest to make any other reasonable offer, she unleashed the venom.

The venom that tore out one-third of the Idiot Trio's earrings. And laughed.

The venom that hospitalised Kanou from a case of sheer, unadulterated fear, and sent funeral lilies as a get well gift.

The venom that sunk fifty-three_ battleships_, damn it.

"You know what," the taxi driver practically choked on his own spit, turning slightly blue, "this one's on me."

**-x-x-x-**

Usui had devoured his third olive by splitting it vertically with his teeth, and attempted to extract the filling with his tongue. Which was hard – but he bravely persevered, as any good soldier would.

After another twenty-three seconds, the valiant battle was won by only a hair (which had somehow slithered into his mouth, no doubt with the intention to sabotage the epic war. Upon pulling out the culprit, he realised, without some astonishment, that it was _red_. Which was inexplicably _creepy._) This glorious triumph sent all the other olives meekly assembled in the 'refreshments' bowl in the middle of the table quaking with fear.

It was at this point of his half-assembled hero-complex that he realised if his date didn't walk in through the door in the next three seconds, he would officially go mad. Straight jacket. One short of the stack. Devoid of marbles. Mad. _Insane_. Asylum-dwelling. Downright _unattractive_.

However, before he could discreetly pull out a hair from his head and check that it was the still golden-gorgeous-better-than-thou's _blonde_ he had been blessed with (the thought of unattractiveness always seemed to incite concern for the state of his hair), an ominous shadow fell heavily from before him, darkening the entire table.

He might have squealed.

You know, a _manly_ squeal.

"Your shoes are untied," was what she first announced from behind him. A poorly concealed cough was the second.

A quick beat passed, tasting primarily of confusion. "They're slip-on."

She smiled, and though he couldn't see it at first, the remnants of it remained lazily as she settled down opposite him, conveniently ignoring the space left beside him in their little booth in the corner of the hustling, bustling, slightly grimy Mexican Restaurant. Their neighbours were either laughing uproariously, passionately making-out, or in most cases, a complicated inclusion of both. A small (yet at the same time overtly ample – Misaki wondered how a girl with that physique could possibly stand upright) hula-dancer with a bobble head stood in the centre of the chipped table as the primary ornament, holding what seemed to be a frying pan and a chilli. Or a giant magnifying glass and a red grenade.

It was hard to tell.

Beside her, the salt and pepper shakers stood, along with a depleted bowl of green, stuffed olives – all three being the dancer's beaus, of course. All hula-dancers need beaus.

Misaki blinked one, twice, then sat, for lack of a better word, primly.

She realised she should probably acknowledge his statement rather than, you know, stare at the salt and pepper shakers. "You're smarter than you look," she offered finally.

"Is it the hair?"

Misaki shrugged, taking in the gaudy, multi-cultural (or culturally confused) interior instead of paying him any real attention. She focused on a rusty numberplate hanging behind his left shoulder that read _Beer, Booze and Babes: State of Luxury_. A thoughtful donation to the establishment, really.

"It might be the hair," she finally conceded, marvelling at his choice of restaurant. She wasn't offended as much as she had been proven wrong. On that account she was off-kilter. She expected imported dancers from the Moulin Rouge to break out from nowhere at any moment. Or John Cusack. In which case, she would leave – date be damned.

Usui noted all this with growing amusement. He couldn't wait till the Mexican trio with guitars came out. That was always fun. Especially when the confetti fell in your food and poisoned your silver(plastic)ware.

"It was worse in high school," he told her conversationally, indicating his hair with a slight gesture.

Misaki assessed him. _Worse_ wasn't the word she would have used, because, well, he looked _good_. Like he always did – walking, swimming, brooding, talking to cats. Obviously, he was one of those annoying people (or aliens) who could actually make themselves look pretty damn fine if the fancy so took them. Even at seven in the morning. Even at _three_ in the morning.

While still _asleep_.

_Bastards_.

True, with all that warm blonde pushed back from his forehead in an old-Hollywood style, she wouldn't call it _bad_, per se. More like _acceptable_ – acceptable in a way that made her feel slightly self-conscious, tugging at the hem of your shirt or checking your hair in the reflection of the water jug.

Like you would if George Clooney suddenly walked in the room.

Or the Queen (only in a more masculine sex-appeal way and less a wrinkly, old woman way).

She frowned at him. "It couldn't have been that bad. What was your name, anyway?" she tacked the last question on as an afterthought, trying to account for that fact they had officially started counting the time on their _date_ fifteen minutes ago, and she didn't even know his full (or real, for that matter) name.

_Smooth._

Usui smiled down at her from his side of the table, only a little but evilly.

He then proceeded to comb his hair with his fingers against the way it had been combed back, pushing fistfuls of hair toward his forehead, clumps hanging around and between his eyes. His hands remained firm on his head, lest it all fall back to his neck again out of habit.

"Holy-_Usuu_?" Miaski's eyes just about popped out of her head, danced a jig, and refused to come back to their rightful place.

"Usui," he corrected, somewhat grimly. "Takumi Usui."

He had hoped she would at least get his damn _name_ right. It was slightly unfair – he had remembered her with such clarity that creeped himself out at times. He had seen her, his maid, in his room.

His own ex-_president_ of his own ex-_high school_.

Misaki Ayuzawa.

And it had all came rushing back.

The Demon President. The detentions. The endless threats – boy, did he cop _them_ – and in all shapes and sizes, too. She seemed to have a new catchphrase every lunchtime; _I swear, I'll carve out your kidneys as a side-dish for tonight's dinner…Today, you become a sushi roll. A dead sushi roll…Do you plan on producing any children in the future?. . .I'll make you cry blood, boy. Then I'll drink it…_ Half of them would have been admirably creative if they hadn't been so terrifying at the time. The energy that exuded from her was like a drug.

Misaki Ayuzuwa.

She had been that girl.

And who was he?

Takumi Bloody Usuu.

Unrecognizable due to a _hairstyle change_.

_Who the hell would show their face when their name's Usuu anyway, damn it?_

Misaki still seemed to be coming to grips with this blast from the past (_past_ was undeniable, _blast_, however, was open for contention. Lots of contention. – like John Cusack).

"You knew who I was?" she cried incredulously, hands fluttering about her, gesticulating nothing but utter nonsense. She finally grasped her glass of water (on the house) and proceeded to drown in it for a short period. Anything to get herself to shut up before she _really_ embarrassed herself.

Good god, _Takumi Usui_? The one and only wunderkid of Seika High. The Most High. The untouchable _Untouchable_. The one Sakura would prattle on and on about when she'd run out of fun-facts-everyone-should-know about her darling – wait, what was his name again? That Indian singer. Wait, no – that _indie_ singer.

Okay, so she was a bit out of touch.

But _Usui_?

They barely had any communication through those six long years that strayed beyond herself verbally beating the crap out of him for being Player of the Year _every_ year, and him shrugging noncommittally in response. Always. He was notorious, though: the I-get-fifty-confessions-every-day-and-it's-utterly-normal prince. The I-land-at-the-top-of-my-class-every-time-even-though-I-didn't-even-take-the-exams nerd. The I-can-just-stand-here-in-this-potato-sack-and-look-prettier-than-all-you-girls-combined idol. The I-don't-need-to-look-anyone-in-the-eye fool.

The I'm-on-a-date-with-Misaki-Ayuzawa-and-may-or-may-not-be-glancing-at-her-chest man.

Misaki growled menacingly as this new piece of information computed.

Usui only laughed, holding up his hands in mock defence, guiltless as anything.

"I was only reading the logo," he offered charmingly.

Misaki imagined two little red horns making themselves comfortable on the top of his head in the midst of all that gold. Charming. _Right_.

Her growl deepened. Dangerously so. "It's a plain shirt."

Positively grinning, Usui stretched his arms above his head in an at-home kind of way, all the while watching her from under hair that was half hanging in his eyes and half returning to its (now) usual form. It reminded her somewhat of those children's hairstyles once they find the fun and thrills of homemade electricity. "You're smarter than you look," he echoed her, successfully butchering the attempt of a girly, high-pitched voice.

She ignored the playful jibe. Often, it was the safest thing to do when it came to Usui Takumi. She had learnt years ago from students and teachers alike he seemed to have a fascination with firing her up over nothing.

She sighed long-sufferingly.

"So if you know me," she indicated this with a point in his direction, then hers, "and if I know you," the same process of pointing, reversed, "what on earth are we doing here?"

Usui, who had been in the process of hunting, slipped his fork against the slippery plate before him and stabbed a regretful slice of garlic bread instead of his lethal-looking quiche.

Garlic bread – not one of his greatest ideas when it came to romantic outings, for sure.

He glanced up at her quickly, his mouth too open for anything as innocent as eating would require.

"Er, do you want to go back to mine?"

For something long and lost called decorum, he at least tried to beat down his enthusiasm in its remembrance. Dear god, he didn't know why he just hadn't gone for it sooner if she was this open to progress? Discreetly, he put the garlic bread down. Nothing kills the mood like a nice ol' lump of garlic in the molers. He had learnt _that_ the hard way.

Meanwhile, Misaki choked, coughed herself calm, and looked altogether decidedly paler. As if she was going to be sick.

Which, in the world of romantic persuasions, probably isn't a very good sign.

Her hand clutched her fork a little tighter, only slightly lowering it to the level of his chest. Just in case. "I meant why are we even _on_ a dinner date – don't you want to just end it and go home? This feels so awkward, and I'm sure you've had your fill of amusement from this whole thing."

Usui shrugged, reminding her of years past: wild hair, glasses, smirk, school uniform that never _quite_ hung the way it should. "No."

"No?"

"Not really, no."

Misaki stared with a might that could send a raging bull cowering to its mother. "The _hell_, Usui?"

Usui smirked, shrugged, and managed to catch a glimpse of her bare calf from underneath the table all in one go.

"Say, what are you doing next week? I've got a king."

He yelped with great gusto when water splashed over his face and down his favourite green shirt, courtesy of _that_ girl's glass.

"Men are _such_ babies," Misaki sighed.

**-x-x-x-**

**So, I hope I didn't let you guys down or anything – I know some peeps were pretty eager for this. I tried to include a kiss – I really did, but it just wasn't working. They just kept wanting to be feisty with each other. Oh, and, er, upon first seeing the anime, when Usui first walked in with his hair combed back, I thought 'who the hell's this guy?' So I thought it was slightly plausible for him to be fairly unrecognizable.**

**Take care and drop a line (or a review, whichever)**

**x Schnook**

**p.s. and by 'I've got a king,' obviously he means in bed terms. Not that I really need to say that. We all know we're all pervs here ;) **

**p.p.s. I'm actually going to marry John Cusack**


	4. Chapter 4

**I live!**

**(Frankenstein moment. Who hasn't had one?)**

**I give you yet another piece of something about something. **

**I need sleep.**

**Warning: John Cusack makes yet another unnecessary appearance. 'Cause I'm writing this baby.**

**-x-x-x-**

Seika High's decision to start a school band could perhaps best be categorized under the word _impulsive_.

Or perhaps, more fittingly, _regrettable_.

It was no secret that Seika High was an institute of little means, both in consequence and material wealth. Half the size of neighbouring schools, worn brick, under-funded and blessed with the quintessential charm of Before Common Era Neanderthals, Seika's newly assembled band had settled itself to perform ritually in a fifteen-minute niche in school assemblies that should have been dedicated to napping by the student body.

The band, thus far, had a repertoire of two songs. Two songs they seemed hell-bent on performing at any cost at any given opportunity. The guitarists found it necessary to hum the painfully familiar tunes in the lines of the cafeteria. Those on the flutes liked to whistle in toilet cubicles. Percussions simply liked to smirk at passer-by's in the halls: _I know you know it. You know I know it. We're a knowledgeable bunch._

Bullying had finally seemed to enter an era where the majority of the pain was inflicted by quart-notes divided into thirds.

It was more than a case of pure and simple bad taste. Granted, _People Get Ready_ and _Tequila_ had hit a record breaking low in musical history since Seika High decided punishing rebel students by making their ears bleed was extraordinarily more effective than the usual threat of detention. Nevertheless, things might have been substantially more bearable had the student body not been forced to endure the band's weekly bleed fest during Monday assembly. Mondays, internationally, are Bad. Mondays, coupled with Seika High's school band, reached new lengths and breadths of Bad.

Misaki Ayuzawa could not count the number of times she had been approached, hassled, guilt-tripped, bribed and pleaded with by her fellow students to do something about what was quickly being dubbed as _The Issue_. Being the epitome of student influence and downright fear-factor-ness, it was only natural for Misaki to become something of a scapegoat.

"It's god awful," her friend, Sakura, surmised.

"Destructive," her friend, Shizuko, decided.

"Unavoidable," Misaki sighed. "School policy is school policy."

And everyone understood, when Misaki Ayuzawa sighed, things could not be changed. Her sigh – even more so than her words – was the mark of their defeat. The class turned around and filed back to their respective classes, thoroughly dejected.

And so, another Monday rolled in, marked by trepidation that surpassed the fear induced by an overdue History test, or cursed exam results.

Assemblies were usually organised by class, with each group standing in single file before the elevated stage. It was an uncomfortable arrangement, even more so when a fifty-year-old Latin jig was blasting from a group of twenty-eight young, inexperienced musician-would-be's.

Which was why, for the sake of the student body and teaching faculty alike, Misaki had convinced the principal – a wrinkled old man with coffee breath – to allow the assembly to sit on the floor wherever they liked during the proceedings.

Which was how it all began.

Misaki Ayuzawa knew well enough of Takumi Usui. From the T to the I, she knew enough as she would ever need to, let alone wish to. She knew his grades, and had access to his attendance records. She knew which class he was in. She knew he was one of the few taking intermediate sociology exclusively at Miyabigaoka Academy.

She could probably get her hands on his credit card details if the fancy so took her.

(Or should she be short on change.)

But in all actuality, he was just one-one hundredth of Senior Seika High. One out of the three blondes in their year. One boy in a sea of ninety-nine others just like himself.

And currently, he was sitting in the back row in assembly, third to the left, exactly behind Misaki Ayauzawa, hoping to some orifice in the heavens she would block the teacher's view of him snoozing.

Why didn't girls wear hairspray anymore? It was like trying to hide behind all three strands of Homer Simpson's hair.

"Hey, you."

A distinct hissing.

"Hey," the voice repeated, frustrated.

Hissing was usually associated with snakes.

"I'm talking to you."

Snakes were usually associated with the female gender, in its entirety.

"Damn it, quit goofing around."

The female gender (in its entirety) usually meant trouble.

"That's it."

Trouble usually meant-

_Ah._

-getting hit in the face.

Reluctantly, Takumi Usui opened his eyes, blinking heavily. He touched his face briefly, idly making sure it was still there, intact.

And was met by fierce, yellowed eyes, as if the face had been constructed in sepia.

_Snake_.

He was never too far off the mark, after all.

"You hit me," he whispered, not entirely sure if it had really happened.

Then his chin began to sting.

"You hit me," he repeated, angrier. She had hit his face. His _face_. His wonderful, perfect, sculpted-

The snake just rolled her eyes, apparently adept in the art of ignoring whining men. "Oh please," she snorted derisively. "I couldn't make it any worse. At least you're awake."

Usui smiled triumphantly, seemingly recovered from the small blow. "I never sleep. Constant vigilance – that's my motto." He considered fist-pumping the air, but didn't want to overdo it. Victory was a hard pill to swallow, after all. Especially to those lesser people who weren't used to it.

But she had already turned around again – probably by the hand of some in-built sensor that alerted the presence of higher authority – and was attentively keeping one eye on the stage, and one eye on the student body surrounding her.

A few seconds passed, and he deemed it safe to return to his comfortable daze.

There were the usual announcements, teacher inductions and a few introductions of new students whose names he couldn't remember if his life depended on it. Hinota? Hinasha? By George, he was bored out of his brain. And just as he vaguely registered the Band from Hell being introduced, there was that distinct hissing noise again.

And this time, it was still too early for the music.

"Bloody hell."

Ah.

"Damn it, kid. Open your eyes and pay attention."

Snake.

"I'll report you if you keep this up."

"Oh please, no," he whined lightly, causing the boy on his right to glance up at him strangely. He kept his eyes closed, trying to picture the school band disintegrating in lava. "Don't _report_ me, prez."

"That," Misaki declared dully from somewhere in front of him, "was pathetic."

Usui cracked open an eye. "Has it started?"

The snake blinked dubiously at the swift change. He moved quicker than she could adjust. "What?"

An ominous beat passed.

"Our demise."

Misaki frowned. And then the band started to play after a disharmonious starting note. She grimaced – at the sound _and_ his apparently uncanny knack for morbid foreshadowing. It was a deep grimace.

"Yes. Yes, it has."

**-x-x-x-**

"This week," Takumi Usui announced grandly as the students were shuffling to find seats near friends and far from teachers, "I intend to stay awake during the whole assembly."

Misaki sighed, and people within her radius unconsciously ducked slightly.

There was a rumpling of clothes from behind her as he made himself comfortable, taking care to nudge her in the back as often as possible with his pointy knees. Misaki gritted her teeth.

"Aren't you proud?"

If being proud entailed being stalked by one blonde half-Englishman for an entire week, she was sure she could pass on the feeling. Her nails dug dangerously into the wearing carpet.

"Can't you sit somewhere else? Say, anywhere else?"

He was far too confident for quarter past nine Monday morning. "You'd miss me."

In one fluid movement, Misaki got up and relocated down further to the right side of the room, brushing past disgruntled students with her knees.

Behind her, there was a distinct grumbling.

"Watch it, buddy."

"Ouch!"

"Do you really have to sit there?"

A moment passed, and there was warm breath at her ear.

"You're cruel."

She recoiled slightly, trying to give her attention to the starting assembly.

"You're ignoring me, aren't you?"

By what cruel twist of fate decided she deserved this? For the past week – ever since last assembly – she had been spotting his blonde head where it shouldn't be spotted. By the drinking fountain. In the corridors. Two lockers down from her own. Always there, with a ridiculous smirk on his face that taunted her every move. And damn her own treacherous instincts for finding it minutely attractive.

You know, in an evil, disgusting villain kind of way.

But sitting calmly amongst the throngs of students, some chattering mildly until she gave them the eye, with a tame Usui behind her (she suspected him either asleep or considering falling asleep), she realised her own paranoia. Her own self-importance, to a degree. She should just relax.

The chances of Takumi Usui giving a damn as to her whereabouts at any point of the day were just about as likely as resigning herself from Student Council President of Seika High.

She felt her shoulders, previously curved to the point of being mountainous, ease of an unknown tension.

"Prez."

Good god.

"Prez."

Not again.

Would the mundane catastrophes never cease?

"What?"

She was pretty certain she had just hissed at him. She hadn't known she _could_ hiss. Suddenly, she felt marginally reptilian.

He didn't say a word, out of either a terribly poor sense of humour, or a sudden teacher-detection.

"What, Usui?"

There it was again. She was certain she would be producing scales at any moment.

A faint brushing by her side. She looked down, and saw his outstretched hand casually nudging her in the ribs. Laying far too innocently in said hand, were two objects she couldn't immediately identify.

"What the hell is that?" She demanded, slightly horrified at the possibilities. It w_as_ Takumi Usui, after all. Who knew where the possibilities ended when he was thrown into the equation.

"Earplugs," he stated simply, giving the two small objects in his hand a rattle – for good measure and good luck.

"Earplugs?" Misaki parroted, unwilling to believe that the word matched the item.

"Earplugs," Usui confirmed, nothing if not lightly humoured. He gave her an enigmatic smile (he had practised in front of the mirror before, and had officially deemed this one _enigmatic_.)

"For?" Misaki prompted, her tone a pitch higher than usual, or necessary, really.

He seemed to be waiting for something. A few beats passed, when a distinct thumping of feet alerted the audience that students were filing onto the stage. Possibly carrying instruments. No, with their luck, _probably_ carrying instruments.

Usui smirked grimly.

"Our demise."

**-x-x-x-**

"He's attractive," Shizuko relented, to the shock of those surrounding her.

Namely, Misaki and Sakura.

Outside the assembly hall, students were waiting impatiently for the cleaners to be finished. The three girls were uncomfortably pushed inside a crook between the last row of lockers and the finishing wall. One particular elbow always seemed to find Misaki's upper back at regular intervals. She tried to shove it away, only to find the crowd had readjusted itself again. She might have knocked an unsuspecting first year in the face.

"Sorry," she cried, only to have the face change to a rebellious looking third year towering above her.

"Attractive?" Sakura shrieked incredulously. "_Attractive?_"

Shizuko shrugged, nonplussed.

"John Cusack is _attractive_. Nike tennis shoes are _attractive_. Puppies are _attractive_," Sakura lectured, listing each detail off with a tick of her finger. "But Takumi _Usui_? He is _hot_!"

Misaki winced slightly, instinctively knowing where this was heading.

"That's physically impossible," Shizuko droned.

"With Takumi Usui," Sakura loyally vowed, "_anything_ is possible."

Misaki was fairly certain she was facing the leader of Seika High's _Moe Moe_ fanclub. And by the looks of things, she was armed.

"Just admit it," Sakura turned to Misaki smugly. "You find him sexy."

"I wouldn't know sexy if it hit me in the face."

Shizuko smirked ever so slightly. "She has a point, Sakura." By the strange gleam in her eye, Misaki supposed she was enjoying herself.

The traitor.

Sakura sighed miserably, glancing off into the crowd as if able to spy him at a moment's notice.

"He's not here," Misaki supplied blandly.

Sakura would not be convinced. "He's always here for Monday assembly."

"In body, at least," Shizuko muttered to nothing but her feet.

"What the hell is this?" Misaki glowered at the two of them, growing tired of their ridiculous antics. "Is there a new fan club I haven't heard about?"

"He already has two of those," Sakura frowned.

"Three," Shizuko corrected.

"Oh. Impressive."

"Would you two cut it out and tell me what's going on?" Misaki demanded, one part of her wondering how on earth one apathetic alien could ever manage to procure himself three groups of squealing fan girls. And damn it, why didn't she have a fan club?

Sakura held up her hands in mock defence. "All I'm saying is you're a young, attractive woman who-"

"-is sexually frustrated," Shizuko intoned dully.

Sakura halted for a split second, then nodded wisely to acquiesce. "Who is sexually frustrated with her whole life ahead of her. There is no shame in-"

"Oh god," pleaded Misaki, turning slightly blue at a few curious bystanders who had heard snippets of their conversation. The wrong snippets. "Please stop. I don't want to hear it."

"That's what a lot of girls said. And now look at them; they're-"

"Pregnant?" Misaki suggested, cutting Sakura off cleanly.

"Dead?" Shizuko threw in.

"Ouch," Misaki commented airily.

Sakura glared at the two of them. "Shizuko, just whose side are you on?"

The bespectacled girl just smirked. "Truthfully, I'm just finding this whole thing highly entertaining."

Misaki sighed, only able to find one true silver lining to this monster of a thunder cloud. "At least Usui isn't here."

"I'm here."

Misaki blinked one, twice, but he persisted in existing there.

Takumi Usui was leaning against the lockers behind her, seemingly unfazed by the crowds of pushing, bored teenagers.

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again and proceeded to turn her back on him in one swift action that stunk primarily of denial.

"I love you," Sakura pledged to Usui, crossing one hand over her heart.

"A knack for timing," Shizuko observed.

"I hate Mondays," Misaki muttered to the dirty floor.

"Attention students," a frazzled teacher called over the group, "please file into the hall in a neat, orderly manner."

Naturally, the stampede commenced.

**-x-x-x-**

"This again?"

Misaki stared down at the earplugs being offered to her as if they were some sort of charity gift.

"It's our tradition," Usui supplied helpfully.

Somewhere to their left, a teacher gave a warning growl.

"We've used them once," Misaki countered. "How can it be a tradition?"

"Come on, prez," Usui coaxed bravely, tossing the earplugs recklessly around his palm. "All traditions need to start somewhere."

"I'm sure Hitler said the same thing."

Usui only smiled.

This one, he deemed whimsical.

And according to his research, it had an 86% success rate on women under the age of thirty-five. 98% success rate on women over thirty-six. Any woman aged thirty-five and six months was simply grey area.

"Nice try."

Usui blinked, then ventured to dangerous waters ."How old are you?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

Misaki would not be bothered by Usui. She would also not be bothered by Sakura and Shizuko's brainless ramblings in regard to Usui. All in all, she would pay no mind to the alien known as Usui, and when all was said and done at the end of the day, she would emerge from this fiasco known as high school unscathed: heart beating and fully intact.

It was only when he took the time to brush a few wayward strands of hair from her ear to push in the earplugs that she began to worry.

"I could have done it myself," she told him, eyes focused on the stage where she could see but not hear the band playing mirthlessly. Or she thought she was telling it to Usui – she might have been reminding herself.

She glanced back at Usui, only to see him casually pointing to his ears in an I'm-sorry-it-can't-be-helped kind of way. He smiled apologetically.

She managed something that may have once been a smile back.

**-x-x-x-**

"Earplugs?"

"Check," Usui affirmed, patting his pocket with a strange kind of affection. "However, it's more appropriate for the gentlemen to offer them than the lady demand them."

An eyebrow lifted without her express permission. "And when will he be coming?"

"About the same time as the lady," he grinned, not missing a beat.

It was Monday. Again. Everyday seemed like a Monday.

Idly, Misaki wondered when she had begun to look forward to the peculiar day.

"But that's not all," Usui whispered grandly, smirking briefly at an older teacher who had caught his eye.

Misaki, who had noticed the passing, looked somewhat startled. "You're going to get me in trouble," she surmised, not without some astonishment (and perhaps a little awe.)

"Please," Usui rolled his eyes, watching triumphantly as the teacher strolled the other way, ready to lecture a gaggle of giggling first years. "I'm nothing but discreet."

Misaki tried _very_ hard not to snort.

She failed.

Reaching surreptitiously into his school blazer, Usui made a show of glancing about him before he pulled out a small bunch of violets.

Misaki blinked.

And then again.

"Those aren't going in my ears," she hazarded. She could not take her eyes off them.

"No," Usui smiled good-naturedly. "But if the fancy truly is that strong, I won't stop you."

Something seemed to register in her mind. "Good Lord," she breathed, eyes still on the offending horticulture. "You're flirting with me."

"I don't flirt," Usui resolved automatically. "But," he tried his enigmatic smile again, "if you take them, instead of making me hold them and look like an idiot, I might be willing to make an exception."

"You're flirting with me," Misaki repeated, nothing short of astounded. A bit warily, she took the violets from his grasp. "Where did you get them?"

"Stole them from my dead neighbour's garden," he replied cheerfully.

"What?" Misaki grappled with the image.

"I'm kidding."

Misaki smiled. "I know."

"Not about the flowers, though," he added thoughtfully, "or, well, the giving it to you part."

"You've already done that part."

"And did it pretty well, I think," he continued smugly.

"Please," Misaki rolled her eyes, trying to smell the flowers without drawing attention to herself. "We're in the middle of assembly and teachers are staring into the back of your skull. You have an incredible knack for timing."

Usui couldn't help but grin.

Then it faded.

"Oh no."

Misaki glanced up, alarmed.

"What is it?"

"Quick – the earplugs."

**-x-x-x-**

**End.**

**Meh. How do I write? By farting through my fingers. **_**Nice**_**. **_**Classy**_**.**

**God, I still need sleep.**

**Drop a line (or a square). Or a review. Or a few crumbs on the floor. It's cold and damp down here.**

**X Schnook**

**p.s. got an idea? Tell me. If the best I've got is a romance during school assemblies, we're all doomed. Nyah.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Heads up: Next chapter will be a one-shot of epic proportions. I literally get excited just from thinking about it. This is just to keep you occupied till then.**

**Warnings: I read other author's 'author's notes.' Can't help myself – I'm nosy by nature.**

**Extra warning: This ficlet is to be enjoyed like a piece of 85% cocoa dark chocolate: slowly. Guiltlessly. Artfully.**

**-x-x-x-**

It's that time of day – too early to hope, and far too late to fear.

The sun is warmer on this day; a richer, deeper yellow than its usual garish lemon that fights with the corners of his eyes. It streams through the windows and into the classrooms in an almost liquid solidity, tangling itself around the corners of desks and chairs – the world drowns in sepia for a split second, flooding Japan as he waits indefinitely without an ark to save himself. Shadows stretch long against the walls. He can make shapes of them, but not sense.

He likes to think of her at this time. Something about the gold streaming into the world, warming his blood, makes him melancholy. He doesn't think too hard, though. He doesn't delve deep enough to put his thoughts into coherent sentences. He is not fool enough for something that self-destructive. They're just fragments. Snippets. He lets them roll pass his eyelids like a steady steam train and views them in a decidedly detached manner. An image here, a memory there. Colours, music, smells, touches – all cumulate little by little to frame something far more superior, something far too much for an ordinary mind to compute. He thinks of Indian rugs with red, red patterns spun through the coarse wool. He thinks of brown sugar – he can feel it under his fingernails, melting against the hot blood of youth. He smells jasmine and salt, combined with an earthy scent – something like blood and flesh and tears spun intricately – intimately – together.

In his memories, everything is warm yellow.

They are all tiny fragments accumulated to stand for a person he can't quite remember, and yet at the same time remember all too well.

She is always in his thoughts, lingering in the corners and haunting the shadows. He feels her rather than knows her. A part of his blood cries out to her. He likes to remind himself that he knows her, remembers her. Reminders will beat against his skull till he has almost convinced himself that it is true.

Yet sometimes his own heart betrays him. Or rather, his mind betrays him. The heart in his chest remains steadfast – it is his mind, yes, his mind that emerges from the depths of the delusions he has drowned himself in with a booming, victorious voice. People call it Logic. He calls it The End.

Sometimes, he wonders if the person he thinks of at this time of day is a creature of his own invention. A phantom. An illusion. The oasis in the desert.

A mother. His heart is certain he can remember one. His heart is certain he still has one buried in the depths of his mind.

But his head. Alas, his poor, _noble_ head.

Sometimes, he lets something akin to truth – untainted memory – float to the surface. And when it has surfaced, it floats buoyantly. He cannot push it beneath into oblivion. He cannot drown it. He tries, though, and with great, great effort.

The truth chuckles mirthlessly at him.

A cook – hands dusted with coarse, sickly sweet sugar. It sticks to the deep crevices in her palms. But she is not his mother.

A brother – splayed out on a rug that stunk of salt. Red patterns. Red patterns going on and on and on.

A father – speaking in languages that sit funny on his lips, as if he has sucked a lemon dry. He speaks quickly to the man smelling of rich spices, and as he does so, he sounds like a prophet.

A boy – he picks jasmine that grows wild beneath the pristine fences. He looks to take it to a woman in lace – his mother.

But she is out.

And since that moment, it has been understood that she will always be Out.

And despite it all, years later and countries later, the sun continues to shine with infinite intensity.

Takumi wonders how such a thing is even possible.

**-x-x-x-**

Her essays have always been nothing short of masterful.

She takes great pride in them, too; of course there are red markings across the pages, notes and scribbles where teachers have pointed out where she failed, but truth be told, they share a mutual understanding – the essays are masterful. What cannot be entirely expressed through words is streamed through greatness of mind. She loves to write, but it is no art to her. Her writing is in no way romanticised. She has neither time nor heart to flounder about in the superficiality of words – the selfishness, the bigotry, the pathetic moaning of the artistic writer trying to stamp their name on language as if it were a supermarket label. The true greatness is in the fire of the argument; the victory of organisation; the sweet simplicity of doing something w_ell_ and taking pride in it. Her best work is submitted on the hour – page upon page of words and ideas and thoughts and beliefs and fire and truth and life.

But her very_ best_ work are the letters she writes home.

Her classmates think it odd.

It is their first year in the high school division (parents still weep at the school gates, praying their children will return home the s_ame_ as they left it). Entries to run for President are being accepted from first years. Bentos are being packed with careful precision. Girls are shaking their pigtails loose. Boys stand taller, broader. Parents fear. Teachers sigh.

And Misaki Ayuzawa settles herself at her desk ten minutes before class begins, hunching over her books and pens and paper as the blonde boy on the opposite side of the room perches himself on the window sill, letting his shadow intercept the warm gold sunshine. He is just a silhouette – not entirely real. A shadow of a human.

She likes it better that way.

Because she likes to writes her letters in peace. Her classmates think it odd – she dictates the pen confidently for a first year, addressing the people she will go home to. She will seal it in an envelope, walk home, slip it into the letterbox, then greet her mother (out) and her sister (apathetic).

The following morning, when her mother is just returning home from her night shift in the hospital, she will find it in the mailbox.

And she will wonder tiredly at her eldest child with something akin to fear and love.

The letters contain nothing profound. Misaki is but fifteen – her world, her mother notes with relief, is still a succession of busy nothings. She writes of her classes, her teachers, her classmates. She gives no particular opinion of them, no great, lengthy descriptions. It is a report. A scientific record. Sometimes, she even records the time (down to the second) of particular mundane occurrences. She writes of lunches. She writes of colours. She writes of nouns, but never adjectives. She simply writes.

It is when her mother reads of a particular letter, the warm sunlight illuminating the page from the small kitchen, of Misaki's '_teacher introducing the topic of c.1500 East-Asian history at 11:34'_ that she weeps for Misaki. Weeps for Suzuna. Weeps for the husband gone.

She weeps for herself last – the woman who bore children with stale hearts.

Eventually, she recalls to herself doubtfully, wiping drying tears, Misaki will grow out of it.

(However, she cannot quite quell the fear of what she will grow _into_.)

**-x-x-x-**

She decides to run for president.

Deep down, she knows she has no right to win. She has seen her competition - she has known her new classmates for about six months now. It is not a long time, but it is enough. Beside her, Yukimura stands, waiting his turn to give his speech. Her rival, she supposes.

But he has nothing. He is weak, softly spoken, dispassionate and over-eager. There is no fire. There is no passion. There is no zeal. But a fire has begun to kindle within her lungs these past few months – she feels it grow with every deep breath and tingle against her insides. Passion has made itself known to her. Hatred is passion. Destructive strength is passion. She is zealous like a preacher, throwing words as if they were chunks of bread and droplets of water to the starved and deprived below. Yukimura has nothing. Nothing at all.

That is, except a heart.

And with that, Misaki notes briefly, humourlessly, he will always be one step ahead of her.

It is Yukimura's turn to speak to the school, and after that, her own. Those who have already spoken are seated below the stage, wide-eyed and hopeful. The boy to her left is disinterested. Yukimura, to her right, is nervous, and stumbles on his way to the microphone.

He has not opened his mouth, but even so, she knows she has won.

And so she wins.

And for the first time in five years, she doesn't write to tell her mother of it.

**-x-x-x-**

He remembers her from the speeches last year, and to be honest, he slept through half of them. Vaguely, he remembers her fist pounding against the table, waking him with a start each time.

She walks past quickly, steadily, eyes set on a destination no one else seems able to see. She pushes through the throngs of students congregated messily in the corridors, stepping on toes wherever the opportunity presents itself. She reminds him of a tornado.

He knows it makes no difference in the end – he's heard teachers and students alike whisper she'll become a doctor. A lawyer. A scientist. A politician. They whisper furiously as they foretell her devastating (and indisputably lonely) future.

He knows it makes no difference, but he can't help think she'll grow up to be a heroine.

And the sun continues to shine.

**-x-x-x-**

**A filler, I guess. I was half-way through writing the first paragraph when an incredible idea hit me. So I finished this quickly so I could start on the next. Basically, it'll be something along the lines of this: Hinata. Usui. Misaki. Jealously. Doubt. Angst. Lust. Regret. Hurt. Power. And of course, Love.**

**It's going to be epic. Just so you know.**

**At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this….thing I posted.**

**x Schnook**

**p.s 10 points to the reviewer who picks up a lyric from a song. 'Cause I have 10 points to give. Justified. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Epic one-shot is epic.**

**My apologies for the delay; I was caught up in David Bowie's eyes.**

**Title: Quite Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn**

**(See what I did there? See? **_**See?**_** Holy golden nuggets, I actually tied in the title with the story! It's like all of a sudden there's **_**relevance.**_**)**

**Pairing/s: Misaki Ayuzawa/Takumi Usui – Misaki Ayuzawa/Shintani Hinata**

**Summary: The ugly, it seemed, always had more compassion than the beautiful. Unjust, but true. Furthermore, he concluded his own internal monologue ominously; love is harder than anything else in the world.**

**Warnings: sexual situations, language, adult themes.**

**-x-x-x-**

He had shown up to the party with little enthusiasm and even less expectancy. It wasn't too bad, though. There was a small (_very _small) part of his mind that was reminding him it could be a lot worse – people could be talking to him; guests could be forced to _dance_; ignorance could have been a requirement upon entry; _they_ could be in attendance. He helped himself to the white Alba truffles – soft, if not a little dry. Caviar was smudged against his lips. The wine was terrible, but he had already drained a full glass.

His third glass seemed to vanish on its own accord, after which he could safely decide that the stuff wasn't as bad as he had originally thought.

It was another mingler. And by sense of defiance against the definition, he was avoiding mingling at all costs. His father had sent him. Or rather, his brother had sent him by order of their father. And by order of gold – or the promise of it – his father governed the orders that had brought him here.

He felt like a puppet.

It wasn't all bad, though – it was by his own choosing that he had stepped onto this carousel, after all. It helped a little. The parties, the business meetings, the faces he looked upon, the hands he grasped and shook – they twirl and go around and around and around till he forgets himself. He has learnt the art of triage now, and sees devastating beauty in it. Now, he looks about the party and gives each individual a coloured ticket in his mind. He is a puppet, but also a puppeteer in his own right.

There is the son of the CEO of Latin America's fastest growing retail chain. _Red_.

There is the chairman of Tsi Fun Corp., Ltd. _Black_.

There is the girl sharing his Internationalism major. She most probably loves him. _Green_.

However, said girl has distant family relations in oil. They own a fifth of the shares. Reassessed: _Yellow_.

He can't feel callous. Not now. No, no – he feels reborn. He has reasoned with himself many times, he has evaluated the circumference of his world over and over again – he finds that this is what life truly must be like. He feels like a wise man now. Money has given him sight and strength to observe the tossing and turning of the world beneath him. He is the cornerstone of his own innumerable days.

Takumi makes a bee-line for the chairman, donning a smile like a winter coat over his freezing person. He is charming. He only has to think it and the charm exudes from him like a mist. The chairman is all smiles – he knows of the Walkers. He is excited to meet the elusive prodigal son.

Takumi Walker.

He has sported the name for a little less than three years, and yet when it is spoken, he sees the eyes of the addressee looking past him, beyond him, calling out to someone who isn't really there. It feels distinctly like cheating.

They are all thinking it. He can feel the heat of their nonchalant glances thrown idly in his direction. The Last Walker. The Returned One. Fear is not something they know – not yet. But he will see to it. He has not given up everything he ever could have had, loved, merely to be glanced at. There will be no disgrace in return. No, instead he will march through the throngs of swarming business men and underworld lords, demanding they stare and gape, and be seated on a throne of gold in the centre of the universe.

This is what he wants now. He has made up his mind: Immortality. Even his father will come to see the light pervading his veins.

He wants it even more now that he can see her.

At first it's a glimpse. He isn't surprised. Every dark haired beauty he spies from a distance can have no other name than hers. It happened frequently after high school released them all from its pitiless grasp: down the street, from the window, in the line, by the lake, behind the phone booth – yet when she turns around they're green eyes. Blue eyes. Brown eyes. Black eyes. Hazel. Cobalt. Verdean.

He's looking for the odd mix on his palette – brown and yellow and gold and burnt umber and tan and lemon all mixed sloppily together. They are the leftover colours, the abandoned colours; the ones remaining after blue skies have been painted and green fields are created and red houses dot the canvas. So someone masterful took a brush to them and mixed them together to create a girl too grand for any frame.

Or so he once thought, in his hapless youth.

But it is her, he realises with a painful mix of trepidation and boredom. She turns fully and he'd recognise her anywhere. The hair has been chopped shorter, granted. She's grown only slightly taller. But the years haven't altered that face. He excuses himself from the smiling man (_no, no, no; it's fine – go play, my boy. We'll meet again_) to seek her out. His feet move on their own accord. His better judgement has been left by the bar lined with vodka.

"Misaki."

He probably should have called her Ayuzawa, but upon a glimpse left to right, he finds that Hinata is nowhere to be found, and quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn.

Because she's here alone, and her name is a sudden ecstasy in the crowded, sticky, overbearing party.

She is pushed toward him slightly by three girls whom he assumes are her friends. Any conversation between the four immediately ceases as he draws near. One has dyed her hair pink just as Sakura would, but it is not Sakura. He has to remind himself that things aren't the same as they once were.

"Usu-Takumi," she smiles, and if she is surprised (or embarrassed) she hides it well. Those yellowed eyes he remembers so well do not falter. She holds out her hand to him. It's slim and pale and just as he remembers it. "These are friends from school," she gestures to the three girls standing slightly behind her, each cradling a bottle in their hands protectively. They grin and one winks at him. Nothing is familiar.

"How's Hinata?" The question is spoken before he realises it, but he won't take it back. He's curious. She's there, standing in front of him, her forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from the crowded hall and the hot August night. Miraculously, she's wearing a dress, not her usual boyish frump. The material is pale and doll-like and so Hinata he can barely watch it hug her torso. She's there, and he waits slightly impatiently for her to say something. Something that would suit her. Something profound, or biased, or lethal. Something he hasn't heard for the past three years. Misaki had always been entertaining; revolutionary, almost. Takumi decides the party needn't be so dull, after all.

Misaki shrugs slightly; two small mountain peaks rising above the earth. Secretively, a small smile creeps onto her face. "Good. Excellent," she pauses, and her slight hesitation triggers the realisation that she's changed; aged. "He asked me to marry him."

"And you said yes."

Of course she had said yes. Hinata himself left a voice message on the phone inside his lonely apartment (save for the cat he likes to think nothing of). The slightly garbled voice streaming through the machine had told him that they were friends. It told him that he – Hinata – was engaged and going to wed Misaki Ayuzawa. It had told him that they would send him an invitation to the wedding.

That night, Takumi drained three bottles of vodka and felt fine.

Misaki didn't acknowledge the comment. Or maybe she didn't hear him. She glanced around instead, as if having forgotten something. He noticed she was cradling a ridiculous-looking cocktail. Fruit segments clung resolutely to the insides of the glass.

"This is your university bash," she informed him, as if he hadn't already known. The statement was then reconstructed. "You go to the university holding this thing. I don't go here."

"I know." He knew.

"I'm here for Shintani. The chairman wants to take him on," she explained, frowning into her glass as if mad at the leftover fruit. She watched, slightly irritated, slightly resigned, as three zealous young (and slightly tipsy) men made overt advances on her new friends, who laughed gaily in response.

"We're going to dance," the pink-haired non-Sakura cried over her shoulder as they were lead away to where a group of enthusiastic grinders were moving to a steady beat Takumi hadn't realised was playing.

They were left alone. Takumi sighed.

"Where's he now?" Takumi probed, caught up in the idea of the couple married. He wondered if they often had sex in that cheap, run-down dormitory of theirs.

Chasing around a stray pineapple chunk in her glass with her pinkie, Misaki briefly glanced up, losing the fruit again. "Exams," she supplied, and then with a smile in her voice added, "He's thinking of taking a chef's apprenticeship."

Takumi managed to repress the snort that had threatened. However, that didn't stop the short, incredulous laugh that bubbled over.

A thought struck him suddenly and would not loosen its hold. "How's he in bed?" he blurted.

Misaki blinked up at him with wide eyes, not offended as much as surprised. If anything, she paled. "You're drunk," she surmised, not without some awe. "You're drunk," she repeated again, perhaps to herself for some fathomless reason. She seemed to grapple with the idea, face contorting into a grimace like an experienced gymnast.

"I feel fine," he countered, a little pissed.

She smirked slightly, then frowned, then stared into her empty glass for a full ten seconds.

"What about you?" the voice was quiet, but with no trace of timidity. She stared resolutely into her glass.

"What about me?" he questioned, watching the dancers dance a way off and the pink-haired friend run her hand down her newest friend's chest. How long had it been since he had been intimate with a woman now? Over a year? Over a year and a half? He wasn't sure. But something was making him feel giddy; the wine, the girl, that damned dress he absolutely hated. When he looked down, he could just make out a slight cleavage she hadn't had when he last saw her. It was probably the cut of the dress, he reasoned, or the slight glimmer of sweat that ran down her throat and disappeared beneath the fabric between her two breasts. Distantly, he wanted to hit her for wearing it in front of him.

Misaki saw her pink-haired non-Sakura friend's antics as well, though she didn't frown or march up to the girl and begin chastising as he thought she would. She just watched, detached. He wondered if she wasn't entirely sober, either. There was a slight glassiness to her eyes that had little to do with the fire demon he knew she had locked up inside of her. As for his back-handed question, she ignored it. Perhaps the words couldn't be said. He couldn't really find the will to blame her for it, either. It had been a cowardly, bitter, bitter, _bitter_ response on his behalf, and it surprised even him.

"No," he relented, looking away. He felt a sudden need to sit down on the luxuriant couches provided. "Let's sit," he commanded, taking her elbow in his hand and guiding her through the heady crowd of tipsy university students and their multi-million dollar parents and friends.

"Should I get you some water?" Misaki offered. It reminded him of all the times she asked him that very same question, wearing a crisp, white, frilly apron. Yet she sounded marginally concerned now, as opposed to snappish as she would have all those years ago. He wondered just how drunk she thought he was. He couldn't see it, though – didn't he always act like this?

He answered her question with another question, hoping it might remind her of him – the old Takumi. Mysterious and enigmatic to the last, that is, until he wasn't anymore. In high school, he had been confident in championing her, leaving her confused and dreary and beguiled and hopelessly infatuated whenever he spoke. It never occurred to him that she was always smiling, rather indulgently, at his own self-constructed superficiality. Now, sitting so close to her, all he could think was how he liked her all the more for it.

"How many have you had?"

He considered poking her belly as an indication of what he meant, or maybe he just wanted to touch her again. Everything felt wonderful – he was charming, she was funny, the wine was flowing like the Nile and he felt good, good, _good_. He caught the dregs of his own sophisticated glass with his tongue suggestively, letting her watch.

She might have blushed, but then again, everyone seemed a little warm and heady.

He moved closer to her, only to have his arm squashed uncomfortably. Looking down, he discovered that he was still lightly grasping her arm.

If she had noticed, she made no comment.

He tossed it around her shoulders, instead. He felt invincible. Nothing could stop him. Hinata was a thousand miles away studiously studying and his fiancée, Misaki Ayuzawa, was blushing with one Takumi Usui, her engagement ring nowhere to be seen.

"He's fantastic," Misaki finally said. She made no move to remove his arm. "Uh. Perfect."

He realised she was finally answering the earlier question that had been dispensed into the air without his permission.

"Is he?" He muttered. He kissed her cheek, hard. She could feel his lips pushing against her teeth from the other side of all that damp skin. The emptied cocktail glass clutched in her hands became slippery. She could smell him from this close, she was sure he had moulded himself against her side; sweat, salt, flesh and expensive cologne. It was Hinata, only sharper; bitterer. Their differences merged and separated.

"I want to go home," she told him, meaning her temporary room in the west dormitory. He hadn't pulled back.

"You want to go home," he told her in return, meaning Hinata. His lips brushed against her skin as he mouthed the words.

Hinata – the foolish, idiotic, flamboyant, kind, irresponsible, childish, warm-hearted man who had sent his fiancée into the hands of the man who had once tried to make Misaki Ayuzawa his. She may not have believed him. Hinata may not have trusted him. But once, _once_, there had been a time when Takumi had known exactly what he wanted. Love, he reasoned bitterly, must be harder than anything else in the world. Its difficulty even surpassed the lack of love; lovelessness.

Takumi hated women; Misaki hated men. Which was probably why it worked so well in the end, as Hinata had never been a real man in either of their eyes. Takumi had once scoffed at him for it, but now. But now.

"I'll walk you back."

"It's only a few minutes," she reasoned, but made no real move to reject his company.

He steered her out, knowing the route by memory. One hand was firmly planted about her shoulder. "You'll get lost."

She snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

He was ridiculous? She had come to his side, eyes wide and chopped hair brushing tentatively at her dainty shoulders while that ridiculous dress squeezed at her frame and whispered as she walked; and _he_ was being ridiculous?

It was still warm. August made the nights seem like day, and crickets could be heard against the music growing fainter and fainter. Walking in between the buildings, couples – sometimes triplets or quadruplets – could be spied crammed up against shadowy walls and pressed into trees.

It was a good idea, really.

Eventually they made it to a blue flaking door. Takumi was almost afraid to see what laid beyond it.

"Are you going to come in?"

Misaki Ayuzawa – forever ignorant, forever looking for the best in him. But open glancing up, he found something he had never expected to see in those yellowed eyes; apprehension; expectancy; desire; fear.

He coaxed his usual smirk onto his face like a languid cat, curled sleepily above his chin. It was too sharp, though. His eyes were strained, yet apathetic. "Will you be prepared to cheat on your fiancée?"

She frowned, only slightly. "With you?"

He didn't answer. Time was of the essence, and he realised he either wanted to be inside her apartment right this instant, or back on his way home. It didn't matter either way to him; he was never one to procrastinate, though.

Unlocking the door, Misaki stepped in to the cramped hall, that same small frown settled on her face.

Takumi thought it might be guilt. But to be honest, he couldn't really give a damn about whatever internal wars she may or may not have been waging with herself. Indecision was weakness. He cornered her against the wall, caging her between two long, sturdy arms. He kicked the door shut behind him, encasing the room in darkness – everything tinted midnight blue and silver. Her eyes took on a green quality that could have rivalled his own.

"Have you decided, yet?" he whispered. He bent his elbows and descended. Her mouth wasn't the same as he last remembered it – it was warmer, saltier. He crushed himself against her, breathing so deeply he could feel the remnants of her perfume tickle the pits of his lungs. It was strange – the more he kissed her, pushed her, the odder it was. He was kissing Misaki Ayuzawa. He couldn't wrap his head around it. _Not mine, not mine, not mine_; the harder it echoed the harder he pushed. He almost pulled back at the frenzy.

But then she made that sound. That half-sighing, half-falling, low little nose that streamed over her tongue daintily and into the world, and his shoulders relaxed. His mind cleared. She kissed him back – fiercely, predatorily, angrily. Teeth knocked together and he was sure for a moment he tasted blood.

He wondered if she had truly meant for this to be her decision.

It didn't matter, though. He gripped her shoulders and pushed her back off him so hard her head hit the wall. She wheezed a little, clutching at her lungs. Or maybe she was hissing at him.

"Not here," he managed to explain between heavy breaths. "Move."

She dug her fingers into his forearm and dragged him unceremoniously into an open space, or what he realised to be upon closer inspection a make-shift lounge/kitchen/dining area. A worn sofa was pushed against the furthest wall, heavy books strewn across the coffee table beside it. He wondered if it was favourite place for Misaki and Hinata when they had sex.

And just like that, he couldn't get the irritating idea out of his head; Misaki and Hinata, fucking like rabbits.

Annoyed, he pushed her against the armrest of the damned couch, seeing her wince at the structure against her spine. She had barely grown, but she was no longer the tiny doll against his frame. He lined his body against her, feeling her muscles contract every breath in, every breath out. He was warm. She was warm. Combined with the weather, the heat was almost unbearably stuffy. Every breath in seared. Blood boiled. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, liking the idea of invasion, attack and amorality. She whimpered, any words that might have followed were muffled by the slick, wet symphony he seemed intent on orchestrating.

He guided her over the armrest and onto the cushions, crawling after her, over her, through her. He could feel the nubs of the flowers sewn to her dress pressing against his thigh as she hitched a leg over him.

It made him want to smile. Even wrapped around him, with his tongue down her throat and hands splayed across her legs, she refused to let go of that other kind, warm, cheated man.

"Take it off," he half-ordered, half-pleaded. After she had taken it off, he thought he would burn it.

But she shook her head hastily, sending hair tangling around his neck, encasing him. "You'll manage," she said hoarsely, digging her fingernail into his skin, leaving red half-moons spotted over the back of his neck. His skin had always been too perfect, too pristine, she reasoned.

His hands were everywhere – on skin, off skin, over the dress, under the dress. He had remarkably slim hands; they slithered in and out of crevices and joints and seams and curves with ease. She felt his lower half push again and again against the fabric, against the skin. He ground into her often, but continued to feel her skin steadily. Only the slight curl of the upper lip and fierceness of the eyes betrayed his emotion. Sweat gathered on his brow.

"_Come on_," he hissed, ridding himself of constraint. He pulled her closer.

She let him have her entirely.

The sun was only pale lilac when they woke, and it spun gossamer threads across them. Takumi felt better than he had in a long time. He cupped her naked thigh, thrilled at the obscenity of it all. Misaki shuddered, then sighed, then stretched. The headache was phenomenal, but she's had worse. She rolled over uncomfortably in the small space to meet green eyes. They were piercing.

"Do you love me?" He wanted to know. She was curled against him with her legs tangled with his. It didn't seem improbable.

She didn't hesitate. "No." There was no reservation, no bitterness, no emotion other than the simple statement of fact. A great wave of relief coursed through him. Giddiness returned at the promise of eternal freedom.

She stared at him, eyeing the familiar face that had filled so many of her former memories. He had told her that he loved her once. No, twice. She had lost count. But that was so long ago now. The past seemed like a hazy dream. "Do you love me?" The question was voiced as if she had been the first one to think of asking it.

His eyes lolled up to the patched ceiling, deliberating. "No," he decided. "I don't." The words were truth. They should have been truth. All he knew was that he smelt of her, and the idea clouded his thinking process.

She didn't say anything.

"Will you tell him?" Takumi asked, lightly humoured at the idea. Would she think of him the next time she led Hinata to her room? Would she remember _his_ touch, _his_ breath, _his_ grunts when her fiancée next laid her down on the sheets? Would she cry _his_ name in her moment of ecstasy instead of her future husband's?

The idea excited him as it repulsed him.

She had paused at his question. "Yes. I will."

Takumi laughed. It was oddly hollow. "I see. I'll have to be ready myself for the fistfight."

She didn't say anything, only stared up at the ceiling.

And it hit him.

It hit him.

Her sympathetic looks, Hinata's unwavering friendship, her blatant acceptance of him back into her life, her room, her body.

"No," he whispered, jumping up. He ran a hand through his hair, threatening to tear it out.

"_NO_," he snarled venomously, dressing himself, kicking all he could in the process. "_Fuck_," he swore.

The insolence. The kindness. The damned concern. The unforgiveable.

Cheapened. Pitied.

Misaki gazed at him from the couch, wide-eyed and concerned.

"I'm sorry," she said automatically, but her face bore no signs of remorse. "Hinata thought it might be-"

He didn't want to hear it. He buttoned his shirt, missing the majority and mismatching the remainder. He could still smell her on him. He spied a fallen strand of his own blonde hair on the armrest of the couch. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kill Hinata. He wanted to thank Hinata. He wanted to forget Hinata. He wanted to cleanse himself of Misaki. He wanted to be cleansed by Misaki.

In the end, he walked briskly out the door, ignoring the woman's knowing looks and pitying eyes. She had stopped apologizing. She didn't bother explaining. There was a gravity, an unconditional kindness to her face he couldn't stand. The tepid morning air slapped against his skin, smoothing his scowl and carrying her scent far from his person and into the earth beneath him.

To them, he knew, he was the ugliest, most pitiable creature.

It never occurred to him they may have been right.

**-x-x-x-**

**Well.**

**I hope I wasn't too ambiguous. I have a good feeling I'll get a lot of complaints that it was, but to be honest, I'd like to think you'll either come away from this chewing it over, or trusting your gut instinct. Interpretation is key. Gut feeling is its cousin. The rest, friends, is the frenzy of life.**

**Just realised this one-shot could be taken as slightly Usui/Hinata (what?). Uh, it's not. Anything that might have given that indication, allow me to explain, was mainly curiosity of Usui's part, and an unwitting obsession with comparing himself to Hinata, ie. Why did she pick him over me?**

**Also, (really sorry for the long A/N, but this was a fairly risky one-shot) I've had in past chapters several reviews and PMs hinting that I have a few young-ish readers that at times don't understand all my allusions and references. With this in mind, I feel the need that the concept of **_**Triage**_** must be understood to grasp what was happening at a certain point in this piece: ****Triage originated in World War I by French doctors treating the battlefield wounded. It was a system that determined what treatment, and when, by coloured tickets. Until recently, triage results, whether performed by a paramedic or anyone else, were frequently a matter of the 'best guess', as opposed to any real or meaningful assessment. At its most primitive, those responsible for the removal of the wounded from a battlefield or their care afterwards have divided victims into three categories:**

**The injured who can be helped by **_**immediate**_** transportation – Red.**

**The injured whose transport can be **_**delayed – **_**Yellow.**

**Those with **_**minor**_** injuries, who need help less urgently – Green.**

**That's it, I think.**

*** SaaLiiieK, Murphy Annen Thiamine, chocolatexlover **– the three wittiest, kindest, awesome-st reviews I've ever had. I owe you guys the world. (In which case, we might need a rain check, as the world hasn't come into my possession….yet)**

**Send me love, babies.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter will be the last in this series. **

**I probably will write Maid Sama! Again sometime down the track, so if you want to keep up with that, author alert is recommended.**

**Thanks for all the support and love: so,**_** let us not say goodbye, but as the French have it; adieu! – Mr. Wickham (there's something so devilishly alluring about quoting someone like him)**_

**- - -This last chapter is dedicated to you. **

**-x-x-x-**

_"I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first renewed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me." – Jane Eyre_

**-x-x-x-**

He finds her in his closet.

It's not a daily occurrence – he cannot boast of often finding young women crouched meekly under his thick, winter coats and between his (slightly odorous) tennis shoes. It's an odd sight. Takumi blinks liberally, but Misaki persists to exist in the very same spot. She is crouched, knees to her chest, face turned down resolutely to the space beneath her feet. He's never assumed the position himself, but still, he can't imagine it would be too comfortable. He makes an internal note to try it for himself for further investigation in his own time.

A mite confused, a mite dazed, he slides the closet door back into place, encasing the girl once again in the musty darkness. He remains standing in front of it, though. Guarding it, perhaps. The incredulous frown seems to be permanently etched into his face.

He tries to speak, but for some unknown reason he assumes there is a closet-etiquette he must follow. There must be some sort of hidden cult, he reasons, that specialises in these sorts of practices. Maths, Economics, Japanese, English, Literature, Science, Psychology; and yet high school couldn't prepare him for this? He tries to calculate an equation that will indicate the answer he is desperately searching for.

E = Closet/M x 4.5 x 6.87/embarrassment – etiquette + awkwardness = solution

Not surprisingly, this only confuses him more.

Of course, reassessing the equation he realises (somewhat ecstatically) that embarrassment could be substituted for ambiguity, thereby lessening the overall value (and _thereby_ lessening the awkwardness), but he dismisses this hypothesis as irrelevant, because he's still standing and she's still crouching somewhere dangerously close to his (busty lady) magazines.

"Usui?" The name comes from beyond the off-white closet door, dragging an overbearingly potent question mark along with it, weighing it down. It's been a while since her voice has been that mellow and quiet.

Then again, it may have been muffled by the layers of cork-board.

"Hm?" It's a rather omnipotent remark on his part, yet its grandeur is lost as the voice from the closet travels over it, trampling it in its semi-meekness.

"I'm ready to come out now."

One eyebrow balances on its tippy-toes and manages to lightly graze the very top of his brow. The action bears no real meaning besides his own pointless gratification; it makes him feel sagacious.

A distinct muffled shuffling from beyond the closet door. Tentatively, the door slides across and Misaki Ayuzawa crouches and bends to negotiate her way out. A stray sock is persistent, though, and follows her, flopping unceremoniously to her heels like a beggar. She straightens in front of him, face a mask contorted to cool indifference. Surreptitiously, she attempts to shake the sock from her foot, only to have it fly and cower in the ominous pit known worldwide as Under the Bed.

"You're done?" Usui hazards, though he has no idea whether there was any employment of activity going on in that small, stuffy closet. It's just an assumption – he can't, for some reason, imagine her idle or frivolous. With Misaki, he knows, there must always be justification, reason.

Her eyes do the talking. They shift slightly and gaze stubbornly into the space just above his shoulder.

A moment passes.

"The door was unlocked," she says eventually.

"I see."

He didn't see.

A sigh, snappish and short on her part.

"You weren't home," she adds, as if the words qualify as an explanation. She looks up at him expectantly.

"Huh," he muses.

She is not deceived. Another sigh. "Then I heard you were coming up."

Something clicks underneath the mass of blonde hair.

"You hid in the closet?"

Misaki frowns, but doesn't object to the surmounted.

"You hid in the closet." It is no longer a question.

He is, to be concise, undoubtedly and undeniably flabbergasted.

Misaki waits, a little impatiently, for the inevitable.

She gives him two seconds before-

"But _why_?"

It arrives, as expected, right on cue.

Misaki shrugs, though nonchalance has never been her forte. She suspects she is picking up small idiosyncrasies from her blonde companion.

"Your jackets are," she pauses, looking for some kind of exit sign on this road to hell.

"Excellent company?" Takumi throws in with no particular emotion. From the dazed look in his eye, Misaki needs to wonder at his wellbeing. "They learn that from me."

She grimaces only slightly, pointing to a sad looking grocery bag slumped on the kitchen counter.

"I brought you dinner."

A beat passes.

"Edible?" He hazards.

She holds out her hands, palms up. "Who knows?"

"Well then," he grins with flourish, seemingly forgetting the whole fiasco. "Bon appetite!"

"It's instant noodles," she intones dully, trailing after him into the kitchen. He's either incredibly hungry, or incredibly easily impressed. Misaki suspects a combination of both. Despite it all, she smiles at his back.

They eat at the kitchen bench. He's purchased some seats, the kind that elevate higher and higher until you need to squint to find your breakfast below you. They swivel, too, which Misaki delights in, but for the sake of appearances, fights the urge to pretend she's in a spaceship. Usui half-turns one way and another, humming to a slow song and attacking his food on every second beat.

It's quiet, and the sun had only turned a half-hearted kind of orange. Perhaps they are eating too early, if such a thing mattered. His apartment is still bare, but not in a stylish, minimalist way. More like in an Usui kind of way. Every now and again, she hears a purring. But it could just be the wind.

Her noodles are tasteless, but even so, she's comfortable.

And while she's chewing on a rubbery slice of carrot, and Usui is negotiating the balance of soy sauce and water in his bowl, she realises that she loves him. As if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Considering it's Usui, she had always suspecting falling in love with him might be a far more flamboyant experience. It should have been on the beach, where fireworks divided the sky like gossamer threads, moonlight reflecting off every surface.

Or in the city, where birds flew overhead and lovers strolled by hand-in-hand and he tousled her hair affectionately under the warm sunshine. Street musicians played love songs.

Or at school, where a heart-warming, awkward, loving confession was seen by the entire school after a squabble and chase down the halls. They would be swarmed, congratulated, laughed with and accepted. And their hearts would have overflowed with happiness surrounded by the walls of Seika High, which they had grown to love.

But it was in his apartment, silent, chewing on noodles and wondering about the stain on the table near her elbow, with a 5:30pm mugginess hanging over her eyes that she realises she loves him.

And there is relief in it.

She looks up and smiles at him briefly, he who is still trying to find the right amount of salt, staring into his noodles. He doesn't see it, and flicks through a newspaper instead.

It's okay, though, Misaki thinks, returning to her poor, dilapidated noodles.

One day he'll see her as Juliet.

But right now, all she really wants is one of his omelettes.

**-x-x-x-**

**Short and easy, like a Sunday morning.**

**Keep reading and writing, and the heart will grow.**

**It's been an honour and a joy,**

**xo Schnook**


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